Batman: The Heist
by EvilBoyGenius
Summary: A group of robbers tries to perform a heist. Please R&R.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the cover picture.**

Camarillo tapped his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel of his black SUV as he drove down the dark and foreboding street. He whistled a tune he had heard in a commercial for the upcoming match between the Gotham Knights baseball team, and the visiting Red Sox from Boston. It was not a very good tune, but it had nonetheless gotten stuck in his head. That was the way music worked for him. He could not hear a song - not even a crappy one - without it getting stuck in his mind.

''Could you please not fucking do that,'' said Brody, the wiry man riding shotgun, who could never seem to string two words together without swearing. The whistling ceased as if it had never been, though Camarillo still tapped his fingers, unable to stop himself. He glanced to the side at Brody, who was, without a doubt, the ugliest human being Camarillo had ever seen. He had sallow skin and dull, brown eyes, bearing testament to his heroin addiction. His stringy black hair hung to his bony shoulders, and he sported a scraggly goatee. The parka he wore seemed a bit too big for him.

Camarillo glanced in the rear view mirror, the reflection reminding him that he was no super model himself. He was a tall, Hispanic man, with a creased face, and a nose that seemed too big for that face. He had a tousled, straight mop of black hair, and a thick mustache framed his generous mouth. Still, his girlfriend said he had pretty eyes, though he suspected she only said that to make him believe she liked him, and not the money he used to help her with her crack addiction.

''Turn right at the next lights,'' said Robert, the fat man in the back seat, who always spoke as if he had been running. Camarillo looked in the rear view mirror again, regarding the man who had suggested tonight's job. Robert had a rotund face adorned by two days of stubble, and brown eyes that seemed to be locked in a perpetual squint. ''The shop should be just down the street from there.''

Camarillo turned right at the lights as instructed, and sure enough they found the pharmacy that was their destination. He brought the SUV to a halt in front of the shop, then glanced at his wristwatch. The clock was past midnight, but still the window across from their position was lit, for the store was open twenty-four-seven. They could see the sales clerk standing behind the counter.

''Let's fucking do this,'' Brody said, flashing his grill of golden teeth in a smile, before pulling stockings down over his head.

Camarillo and Robert donned their masks and stepped out of the SUV, moving toward the door.

Brody howled as he kicked the door, then stumbled backwards, apparently realizing that kicking in doors in real life was harder than in the movies. Camarillo pushed him aside and slipped into the pharmacy, training his shotgun on the man behind the counter. ''Don't you fucking move,'' Camarillo cried, and the sales clerk put up his hands and backed away.

''Put the shit in this,'' Brody planted a sports bag on the counter table, and the sales clerk started stuffing it with the drugs. Brody pressed the muzzle of his sub-machine gun against the terrified sales clerk's temple, and the man - his trousers sticking wetly to his thighs - started working faster. They would sell the stolen drugs on Amazon and Craigslist, and make a fat sum of money.

Robert moved away toward the condom aisle.

''What the fuck did you just call me?'' Brody roared suddenly, pressing the muzzle of his sub-machine gun tighter against the frightened sales clerk's temple. The man paled as white as his livery, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His mouth opened and closed, as if he were trying to profess his innocence, but was unable to form the words. Camarillo knew the sales clerk hadn't said anything, and that Brody was just having fun at his expense.

The lights went out.

''The fuck did you do?'' Brody roared, this time sincere.

The two robbers suddenly heard Robert scream from the back of the store, and the room was lit up by the flashes of his sub-machine gun. The flashes died out as abruptly as they had started, and the screaming ceased also, drowned out by a loud crash. Silence settled thick on the room, the sales clerk huddling behind the counter table.

''Robert?'' Brody peered into the gloom.

The two robbers trained their weapons on the spot from where the racket had come, and slowly started for the spot. Then they spotted Robert, pinned under the condom aisle, which had apparently fallen on top the obese man. Camarillo moved to help the man, who was out cold by the look of it.

Brody swung to the right as something moved there, and squeezed the trigger, filling the room with bright flashes. Something whistled through the air then, and Brody cried out in pain and surprise, dropping his sub-machine gun and clutching at the tiny projectile sticking from his hand. No sooner had the gun hit the floor when something wrapped itself around his legs. Brody fell flat on his face, and Camarillo watched as his partner was dragged screaming into the shadows. There came a loud thud, then all was still once more.

Camarillo peered into the shadows, where stood a tall and broad figure, cloaked in darkness, and holding Brody limp by the front of his parka. The figure dropped the man, and seemed to melt back into the shadows. Camarillo - abandoning Robert - backed steadily until he felt an aisle press against his back. Now he could not be surprised form behind, and he glanced all about, searching for a darker spot amid the darkness.

''It's you!'' Camarillo roared in recognition, his blood running cold.

Something stirred within the shadows, and he loosed a round from his shotgun, the flash lighting the room for a split second, but in that instant he could see the figure. He had come nowhere close to hitting it, and it was rushing toward him. He adjusted his aim and fired again, but the figure had darted to his left. ''Hijo de puta!'' Camarillo roared, firing a third time, but as before he missed, the figure closing in. He loosed one final round, and the flash revealed a snarling visage, half covered by a black mask, and with prickly stubble on its square chin.

The flash ended, and a large hand closed about the barrel of his shotgun and sent it out wide, and then he felt a gauntleted fist crunch into his nose, smashing his head back against the aisle. He was only half conscious when the figure grabbed him by the front of his parka and heaved him across the way. He landed hard on the floor, but his sensibilities kept on flying, spinning into unconsciousness.


End file.
